


Mr. Disher and the Date (aka Mr. Monk Hates Almonds)

by htbthomas



Category: Monk (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team investigates the puzzling murder of a welder. Oh, and Randy Disher has a date. A Stottlemeyer and Disher–focused tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Disher and the Date (aka Mr. Monk Hates Almonds)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jane Elliot (JaneElliot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneElliot/gifts).



> Written for: Jane Elliot in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge
> 
> Thank you to my FIVE beta readers (I was worried like crazy over this one): foxtwin, alamo_girl80, oldromantic, alphielj and van_el.

_Opening Scene_

Although winter in San Francisco was rarely very cold, nightfall still came as early here as anywhere else.  Most of the shop windows on Bryant Street were dark, the businesses closed for the evening.  One light, however, illuminated the street outside with intermittent flickers of sparkling light.

Inside the machine shop, a TIG torch blazed away at a metal seam, which was slowly coming together.  The tungsten arc was quite a bit brighter than the fluorescent lamp above Bill Nichols' workstation. Loudly-crackling bluish sparks reflected off of his helmet, dying quickly as they leapt onto his protective gear or into the open air. A few moments later, Bill shut off the flame with a flip of a switch on the control box, adjusting the angle of the piece to begin on the next side.  In that sudden silence, his cell phone blared, echoing in the nearly empty shop. The ring was so loud, in fact, that it was clearly audible even in the darkened break room several yards away. With a loud sniffle, Bill set the torch head down onto the counter beside him, lifted his face plate, and reached into his jacket pocket.  Flipping open the cell phone, he glanced at the display briefly before answering with a hoarse voice, "Hi, honey."

From that break room, Bill's side of the conversation was being overheard. "Yeah, I've still got a bit of a backlog to finish up... I'll probably be another hour or so, unless traffic on the Bridge is bad tonight... No, don't hold dinner, I'll just grab something out of the fridge..." He suddenly sneezed, and then snorted noisily as he tried to clear his sinuses.

"No, I just can't seem to shake it... Yes, I took some more medicine, I promise... Well, I can't -- if I stayed home another day, I'd get even farther behind than I already am..." Bill held the phone to his ear while he dug in his pockets for a tissue.  Coming up empty, he made his way to the foreman's office.  Through the glass which separated the office from the shop floor, the person hidden in the break room could see Bill searching futilely for a tissue box. "Aw, you know that I'm still going to take you out this Friday..." Bill lifted an empty tissue box from top of the file cabinet, shaking it in frustration. "I owe it to you, after everything..." He started to cough violently then, covering his mouth with his jacket sleeve. "Sweetheart," he continued with a garbled voice, "I gotta go -- I'll be home as soon as I can... Love you, too... Bye." 

He flipped the phone closed, shoved it into his pocket, and nearly ran for the men's room. Just as the door closed behind him, he could be seen pulling frantically at the toilet roll with his clean hand to loosen enough to use.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the person who had been secretly watching from the break room emerged, walking carefully over to Bill's workstation.  One gloved hand tilted a bottle ever so slightly above the metal, pouring a thin coating of liquid over the top of the project Bill had been working on. Taking care not to spill any on an overlarge sleeve, the person finished pouring, replaced the cap with a quick turn, and moved away as quietly as the work boots would allow. Just before slipping back inside the break room door, the person set the bottle back on a shelf on the wall, gloved fingers sliding across the label marked _TECHTRIDE PERK_.

And it was just in time.  Bill opened the bathroom door, still sniffling, blowing his nose on a long, wadded-up piece of toilet paper. After tossing it into the wastebasket beside his workbench, he stuffed the unused portion into his pocket. Bill sat back at his station, replacing his face mask and picking up the TIG torch. As the arc made contact with the metal, Bill began to cough violently again.  Despite his cold, the cough was stronger than just a new wad of mucus forcing its way out of his lungs. The torch dropped from stiffened fingers as Bill hit the concrete floor with a thump.

When all had been completely still for a few minutes, the murderer rechecked the seal on the gas mask and stepped out of the break room.  After one final check around, the murderer's gloved hand reached out to flip two switches on the wall.  One plunged the machine shop into darkness.  The other started up the blades of an exhaust fan, which dissipated a whitish haze to the air above.

\- - - - -

[Opening Theme]

\- - - - -

_Act 1_  
_Scene 1_

Captain Leland Stottlemeyer turned a page of the report he was perusing, shifting the toothpick to the other side of his mouth in the same tempo.  The clock beside his name plate read eight o'clock, but he hardly noticed. Most of the staff was gone for the day, just the night shift remained. There was no one to go home to, after all. Not anymore. He flipped another page and ran a hand through his thinning hair.  The movement brought his eyes up enough to see through the blinds into the main office, where Lieutenant Randy Disher was rushing past.  Well, that was nothing out of the ordinary.  Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes and read the bottom half of the page, focusing in on one particular part of the text...

A body zoomed by the window again, going the other direction this time.  Before he could pause to wonder, Disher flashed across his vision again, the plastic of a dry cleaning bag catching the light.  Eyebrows slowly rising, Stottlemeyer watched as Disher passed one more time from his desk to the restroom.  "What the _hell_ is that boy up to?" he asked himself aloud.  Shaking his head, he set the report on his desk, rose from his chair, hitched his pants, and slowly walked to the doorway.  Leaning against the door frame, he lazily watched the young detective briskly return to his desk to flip open his briefcase and snatch a shaving kit from the inside. Disher soon disappeared inside the restroom once more.  Stottlemeyer waited for a minute or two, fully expecting Disher to come stumbling out again...

Nothing at all happened.  Stottlemeyer shrugged, and turned back to his desk.  The report was waiting. Not that it mattered -- it would be there come morning...

"Well, what do you think, sir?"

At the sound of Disher's voice, Stottlemeyer swiveled slowly to face him. Instead of his normal work suit, Disher was standing in the doorway dressed head to toe in black -- from silk shirt to shiny shoes. "What do I think," he responded flatly.

"Yeah!  Do I look..." He struggled to find the word, "...snazzy?"

"Are you going out or something?" He asked, avoiding Disher's question with a glance to the side.

"I'm meeting someone." Disher smiled with false confidence, straightening his tie.  "She likes guys with good fashion sense." He shifted awkwardly.  "At least, that's what she said..."

Intrigued despite himself, Stottlemeyer stepped closer. "So, who is this mystery lady?"

"Her name is--" Disher paused, tilted his head and then pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.  Pulling a slip of paper out of the billfold, he read it and nodded.  "Mary Beth.  Her name is Mary Beth."

A wry smile crept over Stottlemeyer's face.  "You didn't know her...? What is this? A blind date or something?"  He reached for the slip of paper.

Disher jerked it back, stuffing it haphazardly in his pants pocket.  "Um, no!  Well, something like that... Look.  It doesn't really matter," he said, beginning to pace nervously.  "I've got to meet her in an hour at the Starbucks on Polk and Vallejo..." He strode toward the door in a tizzy.

The sound of the phone from Stottlemeyer's desk startled Disher into whacking the door frame with his shoulder.  He spun, steadying himself with both hands to avoid falling over.

The Captain bit his lip to keep from commenting, lifting the phone to his ear.  "Yeah, Stottlemeyer."  He listened for a moment, and then picked up a notepad from his desk.  "Nah, I'm still here.  I'll give Monk a call, and I'll head over there right away. Gimme the address again?"  He scribbled a few notes, and then looked up to see Disher still hanging about in the doorway.  He shooed him off before speaking into the mouthpiece again. "All right, see you in a few."

He grabbed his jacket, and slipped it over his shoulders, nearly running into the lieutenant on his way out the door.  "I thought you had a hot date?"

"Uh, um..." he stammered for a moment.  Then Disher drew himself up tall, raising his chin.  "Duty calls.  She'll understand."

"Suit yourself." Stottlemeyer pushed past Disher with no further argument, threading his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and heading for the exit doors. Randy hurried to his chair to remove the freshly pressed jacket from the other dry cleaning bag laid across it. His hands shook with haste as he tried to disentangle the hanger from the plastic...

"You comin'?" the captain shouted from the hallway.

With a huff, Disher threw the jacket -- bag, hanger and all -- across his shoulders and skidded across the floor to catch him.

\- - - - -

_Scene 2_

"Wipe."  Adrian Monk covered his nose with one hand and held out the other toward his weary-looking assistant, Natalie Teeger.

Monk stared warily at the object of his disdain -- an innocuous-looking sachet.  It spun slowly as it hung from the rear-view mirror, unfortunately emitting a strong almond scent. 

She gave him a look of utter incredulity.  "Mr. Monk, in case you didn't notice, I'm driving." Natalie took a moment to signal a left turn.  "_And_ it's pitch black! Why do you need a wipe, anyway?"

"That..." He squinted at the air freshener.  "...stench! I've got to block it out somehow."

With a frustrated jab, she punched the dome light above Monk's head, and inclined her neck to indicate a box on the passenger-side floor. "Down there - if it's not too far to reach."

Monk eyed the package of baby wipes on the floor with distaste. He turned his head toward Natalie - with her eyes firmly fixed on the road, she didn't notice.  With marked disbelief, he asked, "Really?"

"If you want a wipe..."

Monk blinked slowly, and then stretched his fingers toward the box, noting the grime that covered all sides, including the lid he was required to touch to open the flip top.  Centimeter by centimeter, his hand drew nearer, his face contorting in concentration.  But all the effort was in vain - he simply couldn't bring himself to touch the lid.  "Uh..." He cleared his throat. "Maybe you could pull over..."

"I'm _not_ pulling over!" She switched the dome light off again with a frustrated jab.  "You can handle it for a few more minutes... we're almost there."

"Maybe if I opened a win--"

Sighing, she turned the steering wheel and guided the car to a stop beside the Captain's unmarked car.  "It's a good thing Julie has a sleepover tonight..." She yawned, twisting the key out of the ignition. The two of them got out of the car, Natalie pulling her jacket tighter around her body.

Monk stepped close enough to touch the antenna of the car, and then gingerly stepped over the gutter to the sidewalk.  Touching the Captain's antenna next, he added, "You know, you could get another scent... like pine... or linen..." Monk tilted his head sharply then, popping the joints of his neck as he often did when he was bothered by something but trying not to show it.  "Or bleach..."

"I happen to like almond, okay?"  She gestured toward the entrance of the shop, following him as he finally went inside.

As they came close to the crime scene, the voice of the foreman filtered through the general noise of the other police officers working the investigation.  "...just doesn't make any sense!" 

"So when you walked in, you found him on the floor beside his workstation?"  Captain Stottlemeyer asked, Lieutenant Disher stood beside him, scribbling a few notes in his police pad. The Captain acknowledged Mr. Monk and his assistant as they approached, but gestured for the foreman to answer the question.

"Yes, I opened the door to the shop, flipped on the light, and he was practically the first thing I saw." The foreman ran a hand across his salt and pepper hair, clearly upset.  "If I hadn't come back to get something out of my desk, I don't know what..." He trailed off, pulling his hand down his face. 

While the foreman talked, Monk began a slow circuit around the area, framing the scene with upraised hands. 

"So, Mr...." Disher checked the name he had written on the page before.  "Mr. Clarkson, what do you think happened?"

"Well, Bill has been with us for about ten years.  He's one of our most experienced welders."  The foreman's eyes saddened as he talked.  "Maybe he passed out, hit his head?"

"He had a cold, right?" Monk straightened out from bending over the wastebasket, holding a used wad of tissue far from his body with his tweezers. 

"Well, yes... he missed a couple of days this week.  That's probably why he was in here, trying to catch up on work. Maybe he was sicker than he thought he was..."

"Could it have been his cold medicine...?" Stottlemeyer speculated. 

"No, he was a pro.  We all know how dangerous that stuff can be. He would never have done that. But then again..."

"Then again, what?" The Captain tilted his head, running his fingers over his mustache.

"He was here, all by himself, using dangerous equipment?  Even I would have probably made sure I had a buddy around to watch out.  Accidents do happen, you know."

"Yes, they do." Stottlemeyer glanced over to where Monk was scanning the shelves, and then nodded at Disher.  "I think we have enough for now, Mr. Clarkson.  We should know more once the coroner gives us his report.   We'll contact you if we need more information." The captain waved over one of the uniformed officers to escort the foreman from the shop. 

The trio of Stottlemeyer, Disher and Natalie fell silent as they let Mr. Monk go about his normal routine of inspecting the crime scene for clues.  But after a few moments, Natalie's attention wandered, taking in Disher's clothing.  "Well, Randy," she grinned.  "That's some outfit you're wearing."

He brightened and turned to her.  "Do you like it?"

"I'm impressed!  Do you have a new girlfriend?"

"Oh, no," he replied at first, then quickly changed his mind.  "I mean, yes, there's a girl, but we're not..." Though Natalie's look of amused interest never wavered, he stumbled ahead.  "We were supposed to meet tonight."

Natalie opened her mouth to respond, but Monk's voice interrupted, causing them to turn toward him.  "Ugh, Natalie..."

"Yes, Mr. Monk?

He lifted the sleeve of his jacket to cover his nose, grimacing dramatically.  "I can't get the smell of almonds out of my nose..."

"For Pete's sake..." She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples tiredly.  "Fine, I'll get rid of it..."

"You're smelling almonds, Mr. Monk?"  Disher's head snapped up suddenly, and he sniffed the air.  "It's smelled like that since before you got here."

"Come to think of it, it has," the Captain agreed.

"See, I'm not the only one who likes it..."

She paused, noticing the way Monk had gone terribly still, staring fixedly at a panel of switches beside the door. He slowly looked between the panel and the taped outline on the floor, as if measuring the distance with his eyes. "The foreman said the lights were _off_ when he came in?"

Disher flipped backward in his notepad.  "Yes, he said he came in, turned on the lights, and saw the victim."

Monk nodded, though he had already moved back toward the workstation.  Slowly crouching to inspect a scuff on the floor, he lifted his head to look the Captain in the eyes.  "You'd better ask the coroner to run a tox-screen.  Bill Nichols was definitely murdered."

\- - - - -

_Act 2_  
_Scene 1_

The next morning at the Nichols' residence, Randy Disher leaned against the archway into the sitting room, only half-attentive to the conversation between Captain Stottlemeyer and Bill Nichols' widow.  Every few minutes, his hand drifted to his pants pocket to touch the cell phone within, as if to make sure it was still there.  Between checks, he shifted position, distraction evident in every line of his body.

Natalie, sitting on the loveseat to the left of Mrs. Nichols, passed another tissue to the grieving woman.  Her presence seemed to comfort Sarah Nichols, who kept sending grateful glances in Natalie's direction.  Adrian Monk wandered the room, inspecting photographs and knickknacks with an odd sort of concentration, still fully cognizant of the conversation.

Leaning forward earnestly where he sat in an armchair, Captain Stottlemeyer repeated, "And you're sure you don't know of anyone who might have wanted to kill your husband?"

"No!" She sniffled.  "He was so well-liked by everyone!  He was the most easy-going person... I can't understand why anyone would want to murder him!"  She wiped at her eyes again.  Natalie gently placed her hand over the top of Sarah's, who gave her a small, broken smile.

From his place on the other side of the room, Mr. Monk spoke.  "How was your marriage these last few years?"

"Our marriage?" She looked down, twisting the tissue between her hands as she spoke. "It was just fine... We've been... we _were_... married for almost twenty years. Why?"

Mr. Monk idly pulled a wipe from his inside breast pocket and dusted the top of one of the picture frames on the wall beside him.  "I was just noticing that you don't seem to have any recent photos of the two of you. The house seems a bit feminine..." He gestured to the floral-patterned sofa and delicate china displayed on the shelves.  "But I don't see anything that might have belonged to your husband."

Mrs. Nichols straightened, unhappy with the implication Mr. Monk seemed to be making.  "Bill let me decorate the way I liked - he didn't mind me cleaning up after him either."  Her face heated as she continued.  "We had a few problems, but who doesn't?"

Natalie nodded her understanding, squeezing her hand.  The tiny gesture loosed a new flood of tears.  "He was going to take me out tonight to dinner... he'd gotten so romantic again, like when we were first married..."

Everyone else in the room allowed the Sarah a moment to compose herself.  Suddenly, in that awkward pause, Disher's cell phone loudly sounded, signaling a text message. Embarrassed and startled, he fumbled to take the cell phone out of his pocket.  Stottlemeyer flashed him an annoyed look. "I'm sorry," he mumbled apologetically.   He slipped around the corner out of sight, presumably to turn the phone off.

Stottlemeyer placed a hand on the armrest of his chair, and levered himself to a standing position.  "Thank you, ma'am, for your time.  Do you mind if we look around the house?  Any information we can get on your late husband might help us in the investigation."

Mrs. Nichols dabbed at her eyes.  "Of course."

Natalie rose as well, keeping hold of the woman's hand a moment longer.  "They'll do everything they can to make sure the real killer comes to justice."

Sarah caught each of her guests' eyes in turn.  "Thank you."

Monk and Natalie set off toward the study and Stottlemeyer joined Disher in the hallway, where he was staring into space with a goofy grin on his face.  "I hate to bother you, Randy..." the Captain drawled.

"Oh!" Disher covered his surprise quickly.  "No problem."

"Glad to hear it," Stottlemeyer responded, not hiding his sarcasm.  He jerked his head toward the bedrooms in the back, indicating that Disher should follow. The master bedroom was similar to the rest of the house, decorated in blue and white, lacy curtains on the windows. The only indications that the room was shared were the size of the bed and the clothing in the closet.

Disher began to open one of the nightstand drawers when his cell phone blared with the sound of another text message.

"I thought you turned that _off_."

"I tried to change it to vibrate," he said, flipping open the phone to check the message.  He smiled as he read the words on the screen. Looking up, Disher explained, "It's Mary Beth.  We've been trying to reschedule our date."

"Well, by all means, don't let your _job_ get in the way of your love life."  Stottlemeyer shot Disher a significant look.

Disher's thumb paused, mid-text, and then he flipped the phone closed with a shrug.  "I suppose it can wait."

Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes, and turned away, peering into the master bath.  Amidst the figurines and porcelain bowls of potpourri, he found a lone razor.  The medicine cabinet contained a can of shaving cream and some deodorant, and not much else.

Coming out of the bathroom, Stottlemeyer found Randy lifting a plastic-wrapped sleeve in the walk-in closet admiringly.  "Are you going to ask to borrow it?" the Captain joked.

"No, it's just funny..."

"What?" Stottlemeyer sidled up to his junior partner, running his eyes over the suit.  It looked no different than the dozen other dress suits hanging beside it.

"He gets his clothes cleaned at the same place I do."

Stottlemeyer grimaced, recalling Disher's recent foray into high fashion. He whacked the lieutenant's shoulder with the back of his hand, but then he really noticed the contents of the closet.  "Bill Nichols was a welder..." Moving to the end of the row of suits, he lifted aside a solitary work jacket, with the name _"Nichols"_ embroidered on the left breast.  "Why would he need so many dress suits?"

\- - - - -

_Scene 2_

Captain Stottlemeyer was spending another evening reading a report, this time the coroner's report for Bill Nichols.  He scanned the page, noting the place and time of death.  Nichols definitely had a cold; his nasal passages had been blocked and his lungs filled with fluid, but the coroner had determined his illness was not the cause of death.  And no head trauma either, which might have explained the way he was found on the floor.

Per his request, the coroner's office had indeed run the tox-screen. A chemical caught his eye, and he read it aloud: "Tetrachloroethylene?"  He continued reading silently:  _"Trace amounts of the chemical were found in the subject's blood; however, levels of tetrachloroethylene and trichloroacetic acid are typical of employees of metalworking industries." _No other toxic substance was found in Nichols' blood.

Stottlemeyer blew air through his mustache.  Despite the report, he couldn't shake the gut feeling that Monk was right. He was always right.  He picked up the receiver of his desk phone, tapping the code that he had programmed for Monk's speed dial.  At four rings exactly, the detective picked up. _ "Adrian Monk."_

"Adrian.  Leland Stottlemeyer. You got a minute?"

_"Ah..." _The captain heard the clink of dishes in the background.  _"Sure.  Just doing a little..."_ A squeaking sound came over the line. _"Cleaning. Is it about the Nichols case?" _

"I just got the coroner's report back.  They didn't find any sort of toxic substances in Nichols' blood."

_"Really?" _The background noise of Monk's cleaning stopped. _"Did they say what the cause of death was?" _

Stottlemeyer read from the sheet.  "Pulmonary edema."

_"Heart failure?"_ Monk asked disbelievingly.  _"I was certain with the almond smell... Are you _sure_ they didn't find anything?"_

"Trace amounts of..." The Captain paused to re-check the report, "tetrachloroethylene, but that's all. Nothing out of the ordinary for a metalworker."  Stottlemeyer placed the report back on his desk and picked up a file of information he had been compiling all afternoon.  "Still, I'm not willing to write off the fact that it was a murder -- so many things don't add up.  The fact that he was working alone, some of his wife's comments, all of those suits in his closet..."

_"Did the background check turn up anything?" _

Smiling at the sound of steam releasing from an iron, Stottlemeyer shook his head.  "Not really.  He has an unbroken work history, was apparently a very responsible worker. He had a few friends he would meet with for poker... The neighbors said they had no reason suspect any marital problems between Bill and his wife... I guess the only thing we have to go on right now are the suits..." He glanced at his desk clock -- 4:30.  "Randy was going to stop by the dry cleaners today before they closed..."

\- - - - -

"Excuse me?" Lieutenant Disher stood at the counter at the dry cleaners. He could see the top of a graying head behind the carousel of plastic-covered clothing. "Can I get some help here?" He bobbed his head back and forth trying to see between the rows.  "San Francisco P.D.!"

He waited somewhat impatiently, tapping the glass-topped counter with his fingertips. suddenly, he noticed a desk bell beside him.  Gingerly, he reached out to tap the bell.  As if by magic, a middle-aged balding man popped his head out from between two rows of clothing, as if he hadn't heard any of Disher's earlier shouting.  "Can I help you?" he asked, face flushed all the way to his thin hairline with exertion.

Disher slipped his badge from his belt and flashed it at the man briefly.  "Lieutenant Randy Disher, San Francisco P.D. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure..." The man looked down at his watch. "Will it take long?  It's almost closing time." 

"It shouldn't be too long, sir," he answered with an official-sounding voice.  "I just need to ask you whether you remember this customer." Bill Nichols' widow had managed to find in a recent photo - he smiled affably out of the frame. Disher placed it in front of the clerk. "He was one of your regular customers."

"Hmm, I'm not sure.  I don't really work the counter very often. Let me get Holly up here to talk to you." Turning, he shouted toward the back, "Holly!  Can you come up here for a minute?"

"Be right there, Anthony!" The woman who appeared was plump, but not overly so, with reddish-brown hair.  At the sight of Disher, she put on an interested smile.  "What can I help you with, hon?"

"I'm with the police department.  I need to ask you a few questions about this man."  He passed over the photo, and Holly took it with a questioning look on her face. She frowned as she scanned the man's face.  "I think he's been in here... he comes maybe... once a week?"

"Did the two of you ever make small talk?"  He lifted his notepad from his inside breast pocket and clicked the top of his ballpoint pen.

She leaned forward onto the counter.  "Well, sure. I usually chit-chat with the customers.  Makes a..." She lowered her voice and smiled conspiratorially.  "..._dull_ job a little more interesting." 

Disher scribbled a note or two, adding, "Did he ever talk about his life?  His hobbies, anything?"

"I don't remember.  I think we mostly talked about the weather, stuff on the news... nothing really specific."  As she talked, Holly came around the corner of the counter, unnoticed by Disher, who was busy writing everything she said down.  "What about you?  Do _you_ have any hobbies?" She placed a friendly hand on his arm.

Disher jumped almost a foot to the left. "Me?"

"Yes, you.  Being a cop isn't nearly as boring as working for a dry cleaner, but surely you have _some _hobbies?"

"Well, I--I like to read, and listen to music..." Disher fought the urge to back into the opposite wall. 

She sensed his discomfort and moved away from him.  "Music?  What kind?"

"I like all kinds... a little rock, a little hip-hop." Now that she had given him a little space, his confidence was rapidly increasing.  "In fact, I even write a little music myself."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah." He had forgotten all about the interview by now, face growing animated.  "I have a band called the Randy Disher Project.  My music has even been featured at a MurderUss conc--" His cell phone blared at that moment, cutting him off mid-word.  "Excuse me," he apologized.  Taking a quick look at the text message, he flipped the phone shut again and put his notepad and pen away.  "I'm sorry, Ms..."

"Walters."

"Ms. Walters, I have to go.  Thanks for your time.  We'll contact you if we need any further information."  He nodded, walking backward toward the exit door. Just in time, he avoided whacking the door frame with his shoulder, and he slid through the doors, hitting the sidewalk at a run.

Holly watched him dash out of sight, her smile fading.  Her shoulders slumped and she let out a nervous sigh before walking to the exit doors. She flipped the door sign from _`Open'_ to _`Closed'_ and twisted the deadbolt.

\- - - - -

It was getting late, and as much as Leland Stottlemeyer didn't look forward to going home, he was going to be of no use in his job if he didn't get a good night's sleep.  Wasn't that exactly what he had told Mr. Monk only a few months ago? As he stood, pulling on his jacket, he recalled the advice he had also given that same night: _"You're going to order one shot, a single malt scotch..."_

It was time to visit Pastor's Tavern on Pearl Street again.  He tried not to think about how regular a customer he was becoming since the moment he had been forced to slap the handcuffs on his former girlfriend, Linda Fusco.  But better that than drinking alone in an empty house.

He walked the entire way to the bar -- the night was pleasant and he could use the exercise anyway.  Pulling on the door, he stepped inside.  The place was pretty quiet, only a few patrons occupied the bar stools or the several booths lining the wall. He nodded pleasantly at the bartender and slipped onto a stool. 

"What'll you have?  The usual?"

"Thanks, Mickey."  Stottlemeyer picked up the shot of scotch in front of him, intending to knock it back... but he paused for a moment.  Better to make it last this time -- he didn't want to have any trouble getting home, and he might still get that call from the research department he had been expecting.  So he took a sip, letting the liquid warm him as it trickled down his throat. 

Drinking this way, while it kept him alert, also made him reflective.  He hoped Randy was having a good time on his date tonight.  Lord knew that boy wasn't getting any younger.  And even as goofy as he was, certainly there was a girl out there who would think that was `adorable.'  Hell, six months ago, Leland would have been out to dinner with Linda, laughing and carrying on, or maybe dancing at the jazz club... now where was he?  Back to square one.  Or to be truthful, he wasn't even on the game board anymore.  When he told Monk that Linda was his last chance, he meant it.  He was through with women. Period.

But it didn't mean that he was sleeping well at night, with the other half of the bed cold and empty.

He slowly swiveled on his stool, scanning the other people in the bar.  Men, all of them, most alone like him or with a buddy.  A lot of them looked like this was the only place they really had to come to -- and he would have felt sorry for them, except that he didn't have anywhere else to go himself. His eyes were drawn to the poor sod in the corner booth, who had his head in his hands, a row of shot glasses telling the tale of his evening better than any conversation would.  Leland smiled grimly and took another sip.  He'd done the same thing after Linda's sentencing.

Just as he started to turn back to the bar, the man's head lifted, and Stottlemeyer stopped in surprise. "Of all the..." After only a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his napkin from the bar and walked over to the booth.  When he reached the table, the young man lifted his head and stared at him, bleary-eyed.

"Randy?"

\- - - - -

_Act 3_  
_Scene 1_

"What are you doing here?"

Randy Disher stared back up at Leland Stottlemeyer with almost no recognition in his eyes.  He blinked and rubbed at his eyes while Stottlemeyer went ahead and took the seat across from him.

"Captain?"

"Yes, it's me, Randy.  Why aren't you out on your date?" He turned and called for the bartender's attention. "Hey, Mickey?  A cup of black coffee for my friend?"

Meanwhile, Disher had his head back in his hands. He moaned, hardly slurring at all,  "There was... no date."

"What?"  Stottlemeyer patted the younger man's shoulder.  "Oh, man, did she stand you up?"

"Nooooo," he answered, not lifting his head.  "I stood _her_ up."

Stottlemeyer was speechless.  Randy? He had been so excited about this date, texting the girl incessantly over the last few days.  It didn't make any sense... Mickey brought over the cup of coffee and set it in front of Disher, who didn't react.  Instead, he sat there rocking his head back and forth in his hands.

Pushing aside all of the empty shot glasses, Leland shook Randy's elbow, hoping to shake him out of this funk.  He knew first-hand how useless it was. "Now come on, Randy.  Have a little coffee -- then you can tell me what happened."

"Nnnnn," Disher groaned.

"That's an order," Stottlemeyer teased him gently.

He lifted his head, finally, and pulled the coffee close with a loud scrape.  Taking a sip, he kept his eyes downcast.  "Thanks."

"What are friends for?"

Randy looked up, tilting his head.  Stottlemeyer could tell he was rolling the idea of `friends' around his addled brain, but bit his tongue on a qualifying joke.  This wasn't the time to tease his junior partner. So he waited patiently for Randy to explain his night.

"So, you know, this girl... Mary Beth?  We've never met... not in person, anyway." He took another sip, looking back down at the table again.  "She really seemed so nice... but I--I just couldn't go through with it."

Leland kept silent, sensing that the whole story would come out if he didn't force the issue.

"As you know, normally I have my pick of the ladies -- just today at the dry cleaners, the clerk was really attracted to me.  If they hadn't been about to close, she probably would have given me her phone number..."

Stottlemeyer took another drink of his scotch, turning his head to keep from laughing. Randy had always been overconfident -- to his detriment. Stottlemeyer set his drink down and pulled his fingers down his mustache to control his expression.  "So what happened this time, then?"

"I... um..." He took a large swallow of the coffee, almost like a fortifying drink, then stiffened at the heat on his tongue. He closed his eyes, bracing himself on the table. "Do you wanna know how we `met'?"

"Sure."

He opened his eyes again and looked straight at Leland. "She started posting comments on the boards at therandydisherproject.com." As he explained, he seemed to become more lucid. Maybe he wasn't really that drunk -- or he'd taken hours to go through the empty glasses on the table.  "She really liked the band, and she was a big fan of my songwriting--"

"Wait a minute," Stottlemeyer interrupted.  "This girl... you met her _online_?"

"Hey, a lot of people are finding a date that way!" Randy argued, finally straightening up.  "I mean, the kind of job that we have... the only way to meet women is when we arrest them!"

Leland couldn't argue with that.  He'd had much the same thought himself.  And a couple of the guys at his golf club had found a companion through online dating.  But before he could agree, Randy plowed on.

"It's a perfectly valid way to meet women in the twenty-first century... but... I chickened out.  I mean, who knows what she's like in real life.  Sure, she might be really nice, pretty, a good conversationalist, but she could actually be a drug addict or a murdere--"  Randy clapped his hand over his mouth when he realized what he had just said.

The flash of anger Stottlemeyer felt over Disher's slip of the tongue was soon quenched; it was all too true. He blew out a heavy breath.  "Being on the police force takes a heavy toll on your love life."  He didn't say aloud what they were both thinking.  The death of Monk's wife, Trudy -- Stottlemeyer's bad luck with women -- Randy's complete _lack_ of real experience...

Randy smiled bravely. "Well, at least we've got each other, sir." He gave Leland's forearm a squeeze.

Leland looked down at the hand resting on his arm... For once, he didn't feel the need for a sarcastic retort.  He lifted his drink.  "To the unlucky in love." They clinked glasses, coffee mug to shot glass. 

Stottlemeyer chuckled and the ghost of a smile crossed Disher's face.  A cell phone chirped its ringtone just then, but this time it was Stottlemeyer's.  He checked the display -- the research department had finally called back. "Hey, Carol -- you get that financial info?"

He listened for a few minutes, his face growing taut with interest.  Grabbing a napkin and a pen out of his jacket pocket, he scribbled a few notes.  "Well, I'll be damned.  Thanks a lot, Carol.  Go home and get some sleep."  He flipped the phone shut.  "This explains a lot."

"What?" Randy asked, shaking his head to clear the slight buzz.

"It seems that our Mr. Nichols had a credit card only in his name -- he was sending the bills to his work address.  A lot of charges in the last year, which pretty much stopped about a month ago.  Restaurants, clubs, hotel rooms..." He looked up into Disher's mystified face.  "Our guy, Bill Nichols, was having an affair."

\- - - - -

_Scene 2_

"So, Mr. Monk, do you think she did it?" Randy asked in a low voice as the four of them -- Monk, Natalie, Disher and Stottlemeyer -- walked up the drive to the Nichols' house.  He was far too cheerful -- especially after the night he'd had.  But something about getting close to a solution on a case always made the junior detective giddy.

Natalie frowned.  "I don't think she did.  It's bad enough that her husband is gone... and that was real grief, I know it."

"I'm not sure, yet... there's just _one _piece missing here..." Monk shifted his shoulders in agitation.  "But guilty is guilty, Natalie."

As they all reached the front steps, Stottlemeyer turned and shot them each a severe look that said, _That's enough from the peanut gallery -- we're here._

He rang the doorbell, and a few minutes later, Sarah Nichols answered, a look of worry on her face.  "Yes, Captain?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but some new evidence has surfaced in your husband's murder case... may we come in?"  Stottlemeyer had procured a warrant, just in case, but he preferred to use courtesy, especially in delicate cases such as this.

Her eyes widened, in fright or hope -- it was hard to tell -- and she stepped aside to let them in.  "Certainly... anything that will help." She gestured to her living room, indicating that they should sit.  "Can I get you anything?  I have a fresh pot of coffee.  I'm not sure it's enough, but I'm sure that I could get another one brewing..." Disher began to lean forward to accept, and Stottlemeyer lifted a hand to halt him.

"We don't need anything, ma'am," Stottlemeyer interrupted her with a serious tone.  "In fact, why don't you take a seat, Mrs. Nichols?"

"A--All right," she acceded faintly, and sat beside Natalie, who tried to smile encouragingly.

"There's no easy way to say this..."  Stottlemeyer's own relationship pain was still too fresh for him to give the news as cavalierly as he might have once done.  He looked around at his colleagues, who were thankfully letting him take the lead here.  "It seems your husband was probably having... an affair."

All four of them watched the widow carefully for her reaction -- would it be shock? Anger? Hurt? Awareness? Her back stiffened for a moment, and then her posture slumped as she looked down at the floor suddenly.  With an odd, detached voice, she told them, "I... I knew."

Natalie gently grabbed the woman's hand again; she had seemed to be comforted by it the other day.  "Did he tell you?"

"No," she answered in the same dull voice.  "I only suspected. I never knew who she was..."  Suddenly, she looked upward, not really seeming to focus on anyone or anything.  "When he started acting so romantic again, I didn't really care anymore.  It only mattered that he had come back to me." Tears began to glitter in her eyes again, and Natalie placed another tissue in her hand, which she didn't seem to notice.

"Mrs. Nichols..." Mr. Monk asked from the side.  "You say that you suspected.  What made you suspect?"

She broke out of her trance at his question and finally wiped at her eyes.  "Just little things.  He'd go out at night with his buddies a little too often, stay late working one too many nights, he was really distant sometimes.  I never had any proof, though." She laughed humorlessly then. "None of the clichéd clues. No lipstick on the collar, no odd phone calls or receipts..."

At the word receipt, a niggling thought stuck Captain Stottlemeyer. "You said no receipts... when we were here before, we found a dry cleaning receipt."

"Oh, that?" Sarah's eyebrows drew down in confusion. "Bill's always liked to look good.  It's one of the things that attracted me to him, you know?  And especially since he had to wear protective gear all day long... he always told me that it was a nice change."

Monk started to stand, a look of comprehension on his face. Without warning, he strode quickly toward the back of the house, just as Stottlemeyer was asking Mrs. Nichols, "So he'd been dressing well for your entire marriage?"

"Even before that, since we first met... where is he going?"

Natalie had chased after her employer the moment he took off, and Lieutenant Disher followed behind -- leaving Stottlemeyer and Mrs. Nichols alone.  "That's Adrian Monk for you, ma'am.  And don't worry..."

A shout from the back caused both of them to turn their heads toward the hallway.  "I've solved the case!"

Stottlemeyer's mouth curved up in a satisfied smile, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.  "...it's always a good thing."

\- - - - -

_Scene 3_

"I can't believe I didn't see it before..." Monk groaned, shaking his head. "Turn left here!" he pointed urgently over Stottlemeyer's shoulder.

"I know where it is, Adrian." Stottlemeyer hit the turn signal and continued to drive, unruffled as usual.

Natalie looked back and forth between the two men, frowning slightly.  "I know I'm not the detective here, but did I miss something?  One moment we're in her closet, and the next, we're rushing to the dry cleaners...  Mind filling me in?"

"Okay, here's how it happened." Monk took a breath, seeming to drift into his own world as he talked.  "Bill Nichols was working late, all alone... or so he thought.  Someone was waiting for him -- waiting for him to use the bathroom.  The tissue I found was wadded up toilet paper, _not_ facial tissue."  Acting out the movements with his hands, he continued.  "The killer poured something over Bill's project.  You know how the coroner's report listed traces of tetrachloroethylene in Bill Nichols' blood?"

Stottlemeyer nodded, making a right turn. Monk went on, "It's like you said, that chemical isn't uncommon in machine shops.  It's used in metal degreasing, and has a really strong smell -- like sweet almonds. It usually isn't that dangerous, even when the fumes are inhaled regularly."

By this time, Stottlemeyer was pulling over into a parking space near the dry cleaning shop.  "When I examined the shelves of the machine shop, I noticed a warning label on one of the bottles of degreaser."  Monk called on his photographic memory, so useful in his line of work. "_`Do not use near high-heat flame. All traces should be cleaned from metal before welding.'_  But Bill Nichols had a cold... he wouldn't have been able to smell the chemical at his station until it was too late."

Monk got out of the car, and began walking rapidly down the sidewalk.  Natalie, Disher and Stottlemeyer rushed to keep up with the detective on a mission.  Talking over his shoulder, he added, "Tetrachloroethylene produces phosgene gas when subjected to a high-heat flame. Exposure causes the victim to cough and choke, and leads to pulmonary edema."

Natalie pressed her lips together for a second, an expression of _I'm sorry I asked..._ written clearly on her face.  "How do you even _know_ this stuff?"

He stopped, a few yards from the shop entrance, and turned to face her.  "Believe me, if it poisons our water, our food or our air..."  He screwed up his face in revulsion. "I know about it."

Disher cut in, "But that still doesn't explain why we're here."  He gestured to the shop sign.

"You know the other industry that uses tetrachloroethylene?  Even more than metalworking?"  Mr. Monk pushed open the doors to the shop with a quick movement, and the four of them spilled inside. "Dry cleaning."

They all looked around for a moment, inhaling the air inside the shop, and a look of comprehension came to each of them, much like the one Monk had worn at the house earlier.  Disher began, "I never noticed it before, but it..."

"...smells like..." Natalie continued.

"...almonds." Stottlemeyer finished with a huff of air.

Holly came to the counter, then, a friendly smile on her face. "What can I help you folks with?" After a moment, she noticed Disher among them.  "Oh, Lieutenant. You're back! Do you have more questions?"

The captain stepped forward, pulling his badge out of his pocket.  "Yes, miss, we do.  We have reason to believe that someone who works at this establishment might be a murderer."

Her eyes widened, and she brought a shaking hand to her mouth.  "Bill?  He really _was_ murdered?"

Stottlemeyer nodded gravely. "You knew him, didn't you? Much better than just a customer...?"

Holly took a step back.  "Yes. I was afraid to say anything before..."

Monk came to stand on the other side of the captain.  "You were having an affair with him, weren't you?"

Her face heated, and she dropped her eyes.  "We were... involved.  But we broke up about a month ago."  She gasped suddenly and her head swung back and forth as she looked at each face in turn.  "You don't think _I_ killed him do you?"

Monk took another step forward, and Holly backed into the plastic bags hanging from dry cleaning carousel. "_Did_ you kill him?"

"No!  I was hurt, but I would never--" She froze, then glanced behind her and squealed with fright. She jumped away from the carousel and almost into Captain Stottlemeyer's arms.

Everyone turned in the direction of Holly's glance.  Coming from the back storage room was the other employee of the shop, decked out with a gas mask -- a bottle of solvent in one gloved hand and a metallic lighter in the other, the lit flame flickering above it. "Get out of here, Holly.  I don't want you to get hurt," came the muffled voice.

"Anthony? What are you doing?"

At Anthony's appearance, Disher swiftly ducked down on the other side of the counter -- whether it was fear or cunning, only he could have said -- but the four other people in front of him effectively blocked him from view.

Anthony ignored Holly's question and directed his next statement at Stottlemeyer, Monk and Natalie.  "Holly's innocent.  She's the nicest girl I've ever known."  He turned his masked face toward her and added sadly, "Too nice."

Stottlemeyer began to go for his gun, but Anthony's voice rang out harshly.  "Don't!  Unless you want to suffer the same fate as Bill Nichols..."

"Let's not be hasty here..." the captain tried to reason.

"I warned you." He tipped the bottle of fluid out at his feet, pouring it all over the floor. A strong almond smell filled the air, and everyone except the murderer winced, Monk covering his nose with his lapel.  "Holly -- one last chance to run!"

"Anthony, please, don't do this!  If I knew how you felt..." Holly pleaded with him.

"You _did_ know.  But you only had eyes for Bill.  And even after he treated you like dirt you wouldn't look at me."  He shrugged and gave a short laugh.  "I guess it's only fitting..."  He tossed the flaming lighter toward the pool of liquid, the golden metal glittering in the light.  Stottlemeyer pulled Holly in close to shield her while everyone but Mr. Monk dove for cover...

The flame hit the tetrachloroethylene...

And promptly went out.

Anthony stared dumbly at the lighter on the floor, just long enough for Disher to pop up, grab the heavy desk bell, and bean him with it on the side of the head.  He fell into the chemical pool face-mask first.

"Great shot, Randy!" Natalie said admiringly, slapping his shoulder.  Disher smiled proudly.

"Yeah, you missed your calling, Lieutenant."  At the captain's remark, his smile widened even further.

Carefully stepping over Anthony's unconscious body, Monk picked up the bottle with a wipe-protected hand. "He may have known a lot about tetrachloroethylene... but I doubt he was good at reading the fine print. Reading the fine print is very, _very_ important!"  He walked just as carefully over to the captain. "Very important. You see, it's only dangerous with an extremely high-heat flame, like a welding arc."

Monk pointed to the text on the back of the solvent bottle. Stottlemeyer and Holly both looked at the words: _`Non-flammable.'_

\- - - - -

_End tag_

Leland Stottlemeyer closed the case file on Bill Nichols with a satisfying flip.  As much as he complained sometimes, he had the best team in the business.  He swiveled in his chair to place the file in the cabinet behind him, when a cell phone signal interrupted him.  He began to grumble about the damned things... when he realized it must be his own cell phone.

Setting down the file on his desk, he dug in his jacket to find the device.  He flipped it open. _`One new text message from Randall Disher.'_  Frowning slightly, he opened the message, which read:

  
_I have two tickets to the Golden State Warriors game tonight._   
_Want to come?_   


Stottlemeyer lifted his head.  Across the room, Disher was sitting in his chair, back to the captain's office.  His cell phone was in his hand, but otherwise, he seemed unaware that Stottlemeyer was looking at him at all. He shook his head with amused annoyance -- _he couldn't have walked twenty feet over here to ask me himself?_

He typed back:

  
_What else do I have to do tonight?_   


And then sent the message.  Faintly, from over at Randy's desk, the same signal went off.  He calmly opened the screen to read.  And then he turned toward Leland with a grin and a nod.  Stottlemeyer scowled and waved for him to get back to work, which after startling for a moment, Randy did.  But anyone within the captain's office would have seen the small smile below Leland's mustache, as he placed the file into the cabinet.

[End credits]


End file.
